


Suicidal Sainthood

by citrusfriend



Series: Poetry [7]
Category: Original Work
Genre: Amnesia, Anger, Apocalypse, Childhood Trauma, Christianity, Cults, End of the World, Ex-mormon, Fear of Death, Gen, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Mormonism, Past Abuse, Philosophy, Poetry, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Religion, Suicidal Thoughts, no previous knowledge of mormons necessary, non graphic suicidal thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-01
Updated: 2019-04-01
Packaged: 2019-12-30 09:38:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 450
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18313004
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/citrusfriend/pseuds/citrusfriend
Summary: Preachers and bishops and billboards would askif we feared the second-coming,as if the fear of hell was the only reason to be afraid at all.





	Suicidal Sainthood

Ever since I was a kid,

I’ve been told that the world is ending,

that the second-coming was being fulfilled,

that it would be in my lifetime,

that we were the ‘chosen generation’.

 

I still remember the first time I believed them.

I was younger than eight,

sitting in those same church pews

on the first Sunday of the month.

A woman of about seventy was at the pulpit

and she said she had a dream.

God had told her that the second coming of Jesus

would be in her lifetime

and I was afraid.

 

To me, the world had only existed briefly;

I had still accomplished nothing and I was _afraid_.

I was afraid that the world would erupt into flames

before I could claim fame,

that I would fight so hard for success,

but before achieving it, the earth would shatter.

I was afraid of irrelevance, of the futility of trying,

of the fragility of dreams.

 

But I was a child then, so all I knew

was that I was afraid.

Preachers and bishops and billboards would ask

if we feared the second-coming,

as if the fear of hell was the only reason to be afraid at all.

I didn’t care about hell, I just cared about _life._

I loved the journey of existence too much to want it to end,

but

_(isn’t that what god would have intended anyway?)_

I was a child then.

So I let their shame swallow me whole

and teach me how to not want to live.

 

They always described how the world would die

as if it was a grand event,

but now I have a front row seat

and there is no applause, just overwhelming heat.

The world is collapsing into orange flames

and _I_ hold the match.

Perhaps it isn’t burning for you,

perhaps not from your point of view,

but I am standing in the wreckage of my own existence,

throwing every chance I ever had into the wind

and letting it fan the inferno

because maybe with the entire world in cinders,

I will finally remember how I got the matches in the _first place._

 

They say the world is ending soon.

The moon is red from the flames and my blood,

tectonic plates are shattering as I hurl them at the wall,

the ocean is a tsunami crashing into my lungs,

white men in green have my genitalia

on pikes, hats, and picket signs.

They say the world is ending soon.

But mine is already post-apocalyptic

and until I know what killed the earth,

I cannot survive in the remains.

 

_(They ask me why I want to remember._

_I ask them why I ever had to forget.)_

**Author's Note:**

> Written 1/2/18


End file.
